


forbidden fruit

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Baking, Fluff, Infidelity, M/M, Secretly Requited Love, Smut, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Tarrlok is full of surprises. Tenzin has no self-control.
Relationships: Tarrlok/Tenzin (Avatar)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	forbidden fruit

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Crawl Into My Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767682) by [Lenticular](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenticular/pseuds/Lenticular). 



> this can be slotted into lenticular's tenzin's affair 'verse, technically, but you don't need to have read it to understand this. 
> 
> you should definitely still read it, though.

When Tenzin arrives at Tarrlok’s door, he’s greeted with a firm, brief kiss that tastes both sweet and tangy—something like berries?—before Tarrlok is gone again in a blur of flying braids, mumbling something about filling about to burn.

“Are you cooking?” Tenzin questions, amused, turning the lock on Tarrlok’s front door and propping his air glider up against the jamb. He wanders down the short hallway and into Tarrlok’s kitchen, sniffing appreciatively. “It smells good!”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Tarrlok frowns, glancing back at Tenzin before turning to continue stirring something on the stove. 

Tenzin looks around, noting a large bowl covered in a cloth beside a flour-dusted work surface. “This doesn’t seem very water tribal,” he comments, lifting the cloth to peer inside. As he’d suspected, it contains risen dough. “Fruit tarts?”

Tarrlok lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug. “Most water tribe desserts leave something to be desired, I am not too proud to admit,” he answers, turning again to point at the open cabinet just behind Tenzin’s left shoulder. “Hand me that small white jar.”

Tenzin obeys, using this as license to move in closer, watching Tarrlok pinch some finely minced spices between two slim fingertips and drop them into the thick, gently simmering burgundy mixture. He’s shed his outer jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his silk button down to his elbows, and Tenzin can’t help but admire the subtle strength coiled in those smooth, brown forearms. 

“You know,” Tenzin remarks, voice light, “if I didn’t know better, I would say this is an air nation recipe.”

Tarrlok doesn’t answer right away, but Tenzin doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart sideways for the briefest moment, as if caught. “Guess it’s a good thing you don’t know better,” he grumbles, but doesn’t object when Tenzin huffs a laugh, leans in to press a kiss to his neck. “Stop crowding me, it’s too hot,” he complains, at the same time that his head tilts further sideways, a corner of his mouth lifting in a reluctant smile.

“I can probably count on one hand the number of times my father cooked,” Tenzin recalls, enjoying the familiar scent and taste of Tarrlok’s skin, the slight shudder when he nips the lobe of Tarrlok’s ear. “Out of those attempts, his tarts were probably the most poorly executed.” 

Tarrlok turns to regard Tenzin in something like shock, mirth dancing in those ice blue eyes. “Did I have an auditory hallucination, or did you just say something slightly insulting about your father?”

Tenzin rolls his eyes. “My point is, this is...unexpected.” He hesitates, wanting to say more, well aware that outsized amounts of earnestness will likely make Tarrlok retreat, but the delicious, savory scent hanging heavy in the air lowers his usual inhibitions. “I won’t ask what prompted you to make this, but I will say thank you.”

“Who says you’re getting any?” Tarrlok asks dryly, slanting a look at Tenzin so unexpectedly mischievous and adorable that Tenzin can’t help but lean in to kiss Tarrlok’s clever mouth, wrapping an arm around his waist, curling his fingers into his side. Tarrlok makes a small noise of surprise but returns the kiss for several seconds, only breaking away to speak against Tenzin’s lips. “Oh, is this bribery?”

“Sure,” Tenzin replies, distracted by the warmth of his lover, the addictive sweetness of his mouth that far outpaces any dessert. 

Tarrlok smiles and accepts another kiss, pulling away eventually to shut off the stove. “You’re helping me with these,” he informs Tenzin, raising an eyebrow as if daring him to disagree. “You may want to shed some layers, make yourself a—get comfortable.”

Tenzin ignores the sudden, foolish leap his heart makes at Tarrlok’s slip, turning away to begin unbuttoning the front of his robes. “I may be more hindrance than help,” he warns.

“Somehow I doubt that. I already know you’re good with your hands,” Tarrlok says casually, giving Tenzin a wink that has heat rising up the back of his neck. “Anyway, it’s not too complex. Come here.”

Tenzin drapes his robe over a nearby chair and joins Tarrlok at the counter, watching him pluck away the cloth and upend the dish to place the dough on the prepared surface, then grabbing a rolling pin to begin flattening it. His movements are sure and quick, arms flexing in the warm yellow light of the kitchen, and Tenzin doesn’t bother trying to hide his admiration when Tarrlok glances over at him with an almost bashful look. 

“Your turn,” Tarrlok says, stepping aside and nodding his head to the partially-smooth chunk of dough. Tenzin glances from Tarrlok to the pin, then does as he’s prompted, holding the rounded instrument the way Tarrlok had, giving an experimental roll. It barely makes a difference, and Tarrlok snorts.

“Come on, put your back into it, I’ve seen those muscles of yours.”

“It’s more...unwieldy than I expected,” Tenzin huffs, giving Tarrlok an embarrassed glare, which only makes the waterbender snicker. This time, Tenzin puts much more power behind his movements, and is pleased when it results in a successful pass, and then another, and another—finding a measure of satisfaction in the steady motions.

“Alright, that’s good,” Tarrlok remarks, placing a hand over Tenzin’s to stop him. “If it’s too thin it’ll crumble.” He opens a drawer to pull out a broad knife, bumping Tenzin aside with his hip to retake his place in front of the dough. “We’re almost to the fun part,” he prefaces, slicing the soft dough into squares. 

Tenzin looks over at the cooling fruit mixture, skeptical. “It also seems like the messiest, which would never strike me as something you’d enjoy.”

“Excuse me,” Tarrlok returns, sounding wounded, “are you insinuating that I’m _fussy,_ Tenzin?”

Tenzin doesn’t meet his eyes, doing his best not to laugh as he chooses his words carefully. “I would say...fastidious.” 

Tarrlok scoffs. “This, coming from you?”

Tenzin shrugs innocently, and receives a spoon in response. 

“Well _you_ can do this the hard way while I do it the easier way,” Tarrlok continues dryly, placing the bowl of puréed fruit on the counter between them. “Since I’m so fastidious.” He shoots Tenzin a sideways look that is meant to be scornful, but something in his expression shifts when he sees the way Tenzin is smiling at him: open and adoring. It visibly derails Tarrlok, and some of that carefully curated indifference slides into genuine fluster for one single, thrilling moment. 

Gazing back at him, Tenzin wonders what it might be like to have _this_ be his life, to wake up beside Tarrlok every day and experience moments like this with ease and regularity until they’re simply commonplace—and then he quickly locks the thought away before the guilt and longing can overwhelm him. “I’m listening,” he says, and savors the way Tarrlok blinks and looks down at his hands, quickly recalibrating. 

“So, it’s important to fold the edges in like this,” Tarrlok instructs, breezing past the strangely sweet moment to refocus on the task at hand. His work is as graceful and efficient as before, and then he bends a small dollop of sauce out of the pan and into the center of the creased dough before folding it into a neat triangle. “You have to kind of pinch it closed, otherwise it’ll leak and be a mess.” When finished, he lays the uncooked pastry in the corner of a nearby baking sheet, then turns to Tenzin expectantly. “Your turn.”

Tenzin narrows his brows in mild consternation, opens his mouth, and then closes it, feeling silly at the sudden surge of nerves. “Well, alright,” he murmurs, pulling a square towards him, hesitantly folding over the edges the way Tarrlok had. It’s less easy than the waterbender had made it appear. “Is this—?” he questions skeptically, looking over at Tarrlok.

“Fix this edge,” Tarrlok commands, pointing, and chuckles at Tenzin’s attempt. “No, that’s worse.”

“You’re a terrible teacher,” Tenzin complains, embarrassed when Tarrlok just laughs harder. He’s then somewhat mollified when Tarrlok moves in closer to help, gently batting Tenzin’s hand aside. 

“It takes practice,” Tarrlok says smugly, then gestures at the bowl. “Now the filling. Just one spoonful.”

This part is much easier, though Tenzin still feels a small measure of pride at Tarrlok’s approving nod after he drops in a precise measure of the thick mixture. “What kinds of berries are these?” Tenzin wonders as he looks over at Tarrlok’s finished pastry to try and match his handiwork. “Too dark to be strawberry.”

Tarrlok shakes his head absently, watching Tenzin’s hands. “We called them called poisonberries. Awful name,” he admits, catching Tenzin’s worried frown. “And they _are_ toxic, technically, if you eat too many of them raw. They’re native to the Fire Nation, but I found a small market that imports them when I moved here.”

Tenzin listens carefully, as he always does when Tarrlok lets these little biographical details slip. Who is _we,_ he wonders. 

“They don’t taste as good as I remember,” Tarrlok continues, reaching over again to correct Tenzin’s technique. “So I like to sweeten them with honey. Okay, this is done. A solid effort.”

Tenzin tries not to feel offended, but has to admit that even with Tarrlok’s assistance, his pastry looks rather lopsided compared to Tarrlok’s. “I’ll get better,” he says, determined, and reaches for another piece of dough, missing the fond smile Tarrlok can’t bite back. 

“I believe in you, Tenzin,” Tarrlok teases, taking another square and beginning the process again. Tenzin does indeed get better after a few tries, and finds he rather enjoys the slowness of the activity, each movement precise and methodical, requiring a level of concentration that isn’t much unlike meditating. 

Tenzin doesn’t realize how absorbed he’s become until Tarrlok peers over, humming. He’s pleasantly surprised to find Tarrlok watching him with that crooked smile. “What?” he asks, suspicious.

Tarrlok just looks at him for another moment like he’s trying not to laugh, and shakes his head. “You just look so tense.”

“I’m actually quite relaxed!”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Tarrlok says, amused, as he places another finished triangle on the baking sheet and unsuccessfully shakes a few strands of hair out of his eyes. Giving up, he uses the back of his hand to move them instead, unknowingly leaving a small purple smear across his cheek. “You’re the only person I know who can look so stressed out when I know for a fact that you’re deeply enjoying yourself.” 

The wide smirk Tarrlok shoots him falters when Tenzin chuckles, leaning in to kiss Tarrlok’s cheek, lingering to be sure he’s cleaned away the fruit filling. “And you’re the only person I know who can look so adorably smug with food on your face.”

Tarrlok’s eyes narrow and his hand instantly returns to his face as if fearful there might be more, swiping at both cheeks insistently. “It’s an occupational hazard!” he blurts, affronted, while Tenzin laughs.

“It’s gone, relax.”

“You, telling me to relax,” Tarrlok grumbles, a bit of pink staining his cheeks. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Your secrets are safe with me,” Tenzin says lightly, meaning it in more ways than one. Tarrlok’s silence is unsurprising, but Tenzin doesn’t say anything else, returning to the final few squares of dough. When they finish, they both stare down at the neat rows of tarts, and Tenzin can’t help but feel a bit proud of his clear progress.

“Not bad,” Tarrlok concludes primly, giving Tenzin a respectful nod before turning away to slide the tray into the oven and set the timer.

“How long do they need to bake?” Tenzin asks as he cleans his hands, his head angling sideways to follow the lean lines of Tarrlok’s bent form.

“Twenty-five minutes.” Tarrlok straightens and catches Tenzin’s look, his expression heated and knowing. “See something you like?”

“Yes,” Tenzin returns, unable and unwilling to pretend otherwise. More hair has escaped Tarrlok’s braids, his skin is gently gleaming from the warmth of the oven, and Tenzin finds himself more charmed than usual by this new domestic side of Tarrlok, though he would never say as much out loud. “Very much.”

Tarrlok runs a hand over his mouth, but not quickly enough to hide his wide smile. He comes closer to Tenzin, wiping his hands on a rag that he then tosses onto the countertop, finally coming to a stop when he’s right in front of Tenzin. 

“You aren’t very subtle,” he remarks, gripping the front of Tenzin’s shirt, tugging him close enough, playfully rough, for Tenzin to feel the heat of his breath. “You know that?”

“Is that...a problem?” Tenzin frowns, as Tarrlok lifts his shirt out of his pants, pressing his palms against Tenzin’s abdomen, sliding upward to reveal more skin. Tarrlok’s eyes follow his hands’ progress and then flicker up to meet his—the familiar heat there making Tenzin’s cock stir—and shakes his head wordlessly. “Well, good.”

And then Tenzin catches the edge of Tarrlok’s smile in a consuming kiss, wrapping his arms around that slim waist to bring them flush together as Tarrlok exhales a quiet moan into his mouth. The mingled scent of sweat and lilac and honeyed berries make Tenzin almost dizzy with lust, not realizing until this moment how hungry he'd been to lose himself in this, in the tight press of Tarrlok's body against his own, in the slow, wet drag of his plush lips as the kiss deepens into something sweetly desperate and needy. 

Suddenly the already-warm kitchen feels ten degrees hotter, and while Tenzin does his best to maneuver the miniature buttons of Tarrlok’s shirt out of their respective holes, the insistent curl of Tarrlok’s tongue against his own is a bit too distracting for him to get very far. So he gives up on that idea and tugs his trousers open instead, reveling in Tarrlok’s throaty gasp against his mouth when Tenzin’s hand closes around his swollen cock, the way the waterbender shoves his hips forward with a growled _“yes”_ when Tenzin tightens his hold.

He lets Tenzin stroke him a few more times, breathing heavily into the open-mouthed kiss until his quick fingers wrench Tenzin’s pants open too, and soon he’s slipping down to his knees, watching Tenzin as he draws him out deliberately, flicking his tongue over the tip of his cock.

Tenzin hisses and grabs the edge of the counter behind him with one hand, the other automatically sliding into Tarrlok’s hair, watching those blue eyes flutter shut as he takes Tenzin in deeper with another low moan. And it’s good, as sinfully good as the very first time and every other instance thereafter, staring down at Tarrlok’s bobbing head as his prick is engulfed in that impossibly tight, wet heat, thrusting inside gently, slowly, not wanting to choke him. 

Tarrlok pulls off to look around at the clock, then places one kiss after another along Tenzin’s shaft, grinning mischievously up at him when it jerks in response against his mouth. “I want,” he murmurs, sliding his hands along the sides of Tenzin’s waist, his palms greedy, exploratory. “Mmm, I want you to fuck me before that timer goes off.”

Tenzin’s head spins at the sultry longing in Tarrlok’s voice, and he nods dumbly as he pulls Tarrlok to his feet, curling a hand around his neck to pull him into another kiss, tasting himself on Tarrlok’s tongue. The thought sends another slow, heated pulse of lust beneath the surface of his skin, and he can only follow as Tarrlok leads them backwards into the adjoining living room, lost in another bruising, hungry kiss. He remembers to get with the program just in time for Tarrlok to pull away and shove him down onto the couch, shucking his pants off his long legs before pointing at Tenzin in mock warning.

“Stay there,” he orders, and disappears into his bedroom, now dressed in nothing but his silk shirt, a delight to watch walking away. He’s back in a flash, clutching a bottle of oil that he keeps secure in his palm as he returns to swing a leg over Tenzin’s lap, lowering himself to straddle him.

“Come on,” Tarrlok says breathlessly, pushing the bottle into Tenzin’s hands, leaning in to affix his lips to Tenzin’s neck. 

Tenzin takes and uncorks the bottle with only slightly trembling fingers, enjoying the insistent heat and bite of Tarrlok’s mouth against his skin. “You want me to—”

“How much clearer can I be,” Tarrlok complains into his ear, bracing a hand against the back of the couch so he can scoot closer, lifting himself up onto his knees over Tenzin. “Get your fingers inside of me.”

“Have you ever heard of the word please?” Tenzin mutters, coating his fingers in the oil before discarding the bottle on a nearby table, then pressing the tip of one digit against Tarrlok’s hole. Tarrlok inhales sharply, lips curving into a smile as he shakes his head. 

“Not familiar,” he breathes, gripping Tenzin’s shoulder tightly as Tenzin presses steadily inside, drawing halfway out and pushing back in again. _“More.”_

So Tenzin gives him another finger, twisting them as he opens Tarrlok up, watching the way he bites his lower lip into his mouth, his brows drawing together in pleasure. He wants to say something, but has no idea what, so he settles for claiming Tarrlok’s lips in another kiss, slow and tender, as he lets Tarrlok adjust to that stretch, and then adds a third.

_“Oh,”_ Tarrlok breathes, the rocking of his hips growing stronger until he’s working himself over on Tenzin’s fingers, one hand still clenched in the cushions behind Tenzin, the other curled hard into his shoulder. “Oh, _oh,_ fuck, come on, I want your cock.”

“Do you?” Tenzin wonders, not entirely sure what’s come over him, pressing his fingers more insistently into Tarrlok as he bites playfully at his jaw. He’s rewarded with a flushed glare from Tarrlok, his eyes shifting between Tenzin’s with what appears to be a desperate attempt at self-control, though the way his mouth falls open with a soft whine says otherwise. 

“Please,” Tarrlok says quietly, and Tenzin groans as he kisses him hard, wrapping an arm around his back as he withdraws his fingers from Tarrlok’s hole, quickly slicking up his cock before Tarrlok reaches behind him to grasp it, both men groaning as he sinks down onto it in one smooth movement. 

The hand clutching at Tenzin’s shoulder slides up to his neck, holding him tight as Tarrlok pants harshly with his head thrown back, his cock pressed hard and leaking against his belly. Tenzin peppers small, needy kisses all over whatever skin he can reach, every muscle of his body trembling with the exertion of holding himself still. Finally, Tarrlok brings both hands to Tenzin’s shoulders to brace himself as he lifts up and slides back down, setting up a slow, measured pace in the dim light of the quiet room, his eyes dark and fathomless as he meets Tenzin’s gaze. It occurs to Tenzin that neither of them had managed to get fully undressed, himself the least so, but he has the presence of mind to tug the soft material of Tarrlok’s half-open button down aside, grasp his lover closer as he ducks his head down to flick his tongue against a nipple.

Tarrlok’s hips stutter at the treatment, and so Tenzin does it again and again until Tarrlok’s moans grow louder and he’s riding Tenzin with needy abandon, his body unfurling over him nonetheless with a fluid and mesmerizing grace. It’s all Tenzin can do to hold him tightly, shoving his hips upward to meet each of Tarrlok’s downward thrusts—every thought falling away to leave room for this, the crashing, overlapping waves of his own desire, the driving need to bury himself deeper, deeper into that perfect channel of heat until he can no longer feel anything but this, this, _this—_

“Tenzin, Tenzin, _fuck,”_ Tarrlok whimpers, and there’s a strangely discordant tone in the air as Tenzin slides a hand between them to encircle Tarrlok’s leaking cock in his fist, but the breathless, eager sound Tarrlok chokes out once again washes out all else. Tenzin watches in fascination as Tarrlok’s face slackens in pleasure, fucking himself on Tenzin’s length until he’s coming, making a mess of his shirt and Tenzin’s fingers, shuddering violently with his face pressed tight to Tenzin’s neck, low cries muffled against his skin. 

Tenzin holds him through it, jaw gritted—but when Tarrlok’s teeth close against his jugular his final vestige of self-control snaps, one hand lowering to palm a rounded cheek and squeeze _hard_ as he lets out a sharp moan, shooting his release deep inside of Tarrlok as his hips jerk upwards once, twice more. It’s only when he regains some measure of reality, the pace of his heartbeat and breath rate slowed to something less frantic, that he realizes he’s hearing that sound again, more insistent and high-pitched this time as it cuts through the dissipating fog of lust. 

Beeping, something is beeping.

Tarrlok’s head lifts from where it’s lolled onto Tenzin’s shoulder, and their eyes meet in confusion for a brief moment before Tarrlok gasps, easing himself off Tenzin and darting back into the kitchen, yelling, “The fucking tarts!”

Tenzin blinks and stands, trying to summon the scattered pieces of his brain to make them fuse back together, still tingling and adrift in the afterglow. “Did they burn?” he asks, finally getting to his feet and following Tarrlok as he refastens his pants. Tarrlok has already placed the hot tray on the stove and shut the oven off, and turns back to give Tenzin a relieved smile.

“They’re a little more crispy than is ideal, but far from ruined,” he admits, and clucks his tongue as he bats Tenzin’s hand away when he reaches out. “What are you, five? It'll scald your tongue!”

Tenzin has children, he’s seen Pema give the same warning thousands of times; he should know this. “Right,” he says sheepishly, and Tarrlok snorts at him, the proud gleam in his eye telling Tenzin he’s correctly guessed the reason for his momentary lapse in judgement.

Still: it's impossible not to notice that night has fully fallen outside Tarrlok’s narrow kitchen window, and Tenzin conceals a melancholy sigh. It’s the point in the evening when he usually begins to extricate himself from Tarrlok’s warm, sleepy form, quietly gather his clothing, and begin the solitary and stomach-churning flight home. 

Tarrlok senses the shift, because he glances outside too, then turns to Tenzin, hesitancy warring with defiance in his eyes. Tenzin narrows in on it immediately. “What’s that look?”

“I was just thinking,” Tarrlok begins, in an innocent tone that doesn’t fool Tenzin for a second, “That after all that work you put in earlier, it’d be a shame for you to miss out on the fruits of your labor.” He pauses, rolls his eyes. “No pun intended.”

Tenzin exhales a quiet laugh, weighing the options and consequences, ashamed to realize his mind is already producing a string believable excuses for him to tap into later, if need be. “Meaning what, exactly?” he hedges, as if pretending to offer some token resistance will chip away at his karmic sins. 

Tarrlok sees right through his tactic, if his crooked grin is anything to go by, and his voice is low and amused as he again slips his hands beneath Tenzin’s shirt, fingers slowly tracing the even divots of his abs. “I really think you should have a tart before you go.” He presses a smiling kiss to Tenzin’s lips, swallowing his laugh, then pulls away with a stern look. _“After_ they cool off.”

Tenzin is lost; has been lost from the first day he laid eyes on Tarrlok.

So he doesn’t bother pretending to have the strength to leave, not when Tarrlok leads him back down the darkened hallway to rid them both of all of their clothes this time, pressing him backwards into soft sheets with deep, drugging kisses and loosely entwined fingers, stealing more precious time from their ever-diminishing stores, closing their eyes to that inevitable truth by losing themselves so thoroughly within it. 

When Tenzin flies home much later, silhouetted against the chalky midnight sky, he savors the fruit and forbidden kisses still heavy on his tongue. Whispers an insincere prayer of contrition that's immediately lost in the wind. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, dillon, for the fire nation berries idea, and thank you, lenticular, for killing me so softly from week to week that I have no choice but to write things like this


End file.
